


Lost Moorings

by mydogwatson



Series: The Postcard Tales [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Druggie Sherlock, Gen, It is inevitable, soldier John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:04:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost boy Sherlock and soldier John, both still drifting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Moorings

**Author's Note:**

> This postcard was not actually written immediately after yesterday's, but as it is a sequel and some folks were concerned by that first story, I decided to move this up in the queue.

Sherlock Holmes remained a hippie lost boy much longer than he should have done, mostly because his drug habit evolved from smoking dope to injecting cocaine. Occasionally he cleaned himself up enough to give those who cared about him hope. He even developed an odd, but useful, hobby of showing up at crime scenes and telling the investigators from the Yard everything they were doing wrong. Sometimes [when he was not quite as sober as he thought] the pastime led to a few hours spent in a cell.

But then, inevitably it seemed, he would slip again and edge himself ever closer to the abyss. 

Finally, in 1981, Mycroft decided that the situation needed his personal touch. His heavy touch. He simply had his brother snatched from Piccadilly Circus, where he had been panhandling tourists, and delivered him to a remote sanatorium in the far north of Scotland.

Mycroft and their parents saw this as the last chance to save their wayward Peter Pan.  
+

The military suited John Watson. He travelled three continents, met lots of interesting people, saving many and killing some. Others he merely bedded and forgot.

He was mostly happy. Or as happy as John Watson thought he deserved to be. If something was missing from his life, he could not name it. Or remember it.  
+

In the end, it had nothing to do with Mycroft’s meddling or his parents’ weepy pleas. Or even the efforts of half a dozen dedicated therapists. Maybe especially their efforts. Instead, Sherlock simply decided that it was time for him to face reality instead of trying to escape it. He was tired of drifting through life unmoored and lost.

As time went on, there was one thing that he could hold onto and that was The Work. It was enough, he decided.

Sometimes, his landlady, Mrs Hudson, brought him tea.  
+

It all ended on a sunny Monday in 1986, at the hands of an IRA sniper in Londonderry. John was not even on duty at the time, but when he heard the explosion, he ran towards the action.  
When he next awoke, really, he was back in London for the first time in almost eighteen years. There was a long stay in hospital, followed by even more weeks in rehab. Finally, there was a sterile little room in veterans’ housing and nothing to do but walk the streets, his stick tapping a melancholy tune as he went.

Sometimes, especially on rainy nights, John would think he almost caught sight of a strangely familiar ghost, always just turning a corner or disappearing into the shadows. Once or twice he tried to follow, but there was never anyone there.

There was never anyone in his horrid little room either.  
+

She kept offering him coffee, whenever he was in the laboratory at St. Barts.

Sometimes he accepted, but he never actually drank it.

Then one day in January, the door to the lab opened and Mike Stamford came in, followed by another man with a fading tan and empty eyes. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Title from: Lost Moorings by Georges Simenon


End file.
